The world is never quiet, even its silence eternally resounds with the same notes, in vibrations which escape our ears. As for those that we perceive, they carry sounds to us, occasionally a chord, never a melody.
If one but tell a thing well, it moves on with undying voice, and over the fruitful earth and across the sea goes the bright gleam of noble deeds ever unquenchable.
You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
Our songs travel the earth. We sing to one another. Not a single note is ever lost and no song is original. They all come from the same place and go back to a time when only the stones howled.
It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.
When you say, 'I'm going to sing it once, and everyone is going to hear it forever,' that's kind of frightening.
Sound waves do not die out. They travel forever and forever. All our sentences are immortal. Our useless bleatings circle the universe for all eternity.
I think it's every artist's dream to create something that will endure, something that people will listen to until there are no more people on earth to listen to things.
Souls live on in perpetual echoes.
Even though someone has died, a piece of their spirit can still be alive. That's an exciting world for me to take music into, or to attempt to do that.
Indeed, unless a man can link his written thoughts with the everlasting wants of men, so that they shall draw more from them as wells, there is no more immortality to the thoughts and feelings of the soul than to the muscles and bones.
You can kill that man but not his song, When it's sung the whole world round...
When speech is given to a soul holy and true, time, and its dome of ages, becomes as a mighty whispering-gallery, round which the imprisoned utterance runs, and reverberates forever.
